


Reluctant Ruth

by Hyoushin



Series: Side Effect [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Amoneki Feels, Canon Divergence - Aogiri Arc, Hurt/Comfort, Kuroneki to Shironeki, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amon Koutarou had been tasked with the search of Suzuya Juuzou.</p>
<p>In building five, the Investigator came across a room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reluctant Ruth

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Ruth: compassion, pity.  
> 2) [Based on this prompt!](http://tokyoghoulkink.dreamwidth.org/1408.html?thread=35968) It was already filled though.  
> 3) I tried to make this work so I changed lots of things. Forget the original plot haha.  
> 4) I'm deeply sorry for my grammar mistakes, weird worded sentences and oocness!

Amon Koutarou had been tasked with the search of Suzuya Juuzou. There was no way he could have known, as he had left Investigator Shinohara behind, he would get involved in a situation which could jeopardize his own status as a CCG Investigator.

In building five, the Investigator came across a room.

As he entered it, a stagnant smell of blood assaulted his senses. His eyes noticed, astounded, how the floor had been painted in diverse scattered patterns of gore. At the very center, caged in this crimson chamber of horror, was an ill-fated individual chained to a chair. His steps were silent, careful, and determined. He stopped in front of the chair, having already noticed that the person was unconscious. His distorted filthy appearance was just a small part of the unimaginable atrocities that had taken place. A wave of nausea nearly overcame him when he peeked at the contents of the large bucket located at the feet of the prisoner.

Where exactly was he? This was absolute obscene madness.

Beside the chair, Koutarou inspected the tray which had several tools with dried blood smeared upon every crevice. He couldn't bring himself to touch them, he could only observe, and for his sanity that was more than enough, for each of them muttered an abhorrent narrative about thorough brutal torture. The successful identification of one tool in particular was distasteful to him. It almost certainly belonged to the ghoul who tortured and killed for pleasure, Jason from the thirteenth ward.

How this ghoul became entrapped in this place? Koutarou wondered, this was obviously a place where no human could survive.

The ghoul had his head drooped so low that seemed it would easily drop from his shoulders and roll on the floor, like a lone worn out forgotten doll. His dim black hair curtained his face, so Koutarou kneeled before him and with one of his hands, took his chin and lifted the ghoul's head. As he gazed at the face of the young ghoul—his curiosity had been inevitable—his mind was struck by a sudden recollection.

_Male, nineteen years old, white skin, gray eyes, black straight hair, student at Kamii University, reported missing—the accident—the scandal—connected to professor Kanou Akihiro—_

His train of thought came to a screeching halt when it reached his name.

_Kaneki Ken._

The in-depth information within the file he had been given a month ago, and the attached photograph at the corner of the first page, belonged to this ghoul without a doubt, the investigator realized. The ghoul who now had a name. The face he was holding with his hand—Koutarou furrowed his brow—had a name.

He knew this person—ghoul—was the one the CCG was searching for, he also knew that what he had before him, seated on a chair, momentarily oblivious, was an artificial hybrid. Someone who had been a human being. Someone who had been experimented on—and what would the CCG do if they captured him? Would they do this too?—Koutarou wanted to stop thinking for a moment because he couldn't keep drawing out this matter.

But it was too late, wasn't it?

Because he couldn't stop thinking that linked to this face, there was a name, a story, a tragic origin.

(He's still a ghoul, don't forget that!)

Yes, a ghoul, and Koutarou wouldn't be fooled once again—the weight of the cross pressed against his chest was becoming unbearable (of all times, why now?). "I am a CCG Investigator." He whispered, trying to anchor his thoughts to that unchangeable fact; which he always chose to be able to move forward. The CCG Investigator within him told him to get out of this damned place after putting an end to the existence of this pitiful creature, since there was no other option for a ghoul slayer like him (that's what we are, that's what we do, isn't that right, Mado-san?).

"I'm an Investigator," he repeated, wanting to be stubborn as he deliberately wasn't taking account of what his body was doing anymore—the chains binding the ankles and wrists of the ghoul had been broken. Koutarou had broken them because he couldn't tune out the voice of the child that shyly said: 'Why not? Isn't this the right thing to do? We've been saved by one of them before, remember?'

" _Don't make me a murderer!"_

The sorrowful words rang in his mind.

Yes, Koutarou remembered, very clearly.

Koutarou wanted to understand. He kept meditating on the meaning of that encounter. The eye patch mask ghoul who, that day, had defied all the laws he had learned and adopted to rule himself. Koutarou could have been killed, if _he_ had been another kind of ghoul, he would surely have been killed (what kind of ghoul are you?). He was alive, and thus he desperately wanted, no, needed to understand—fragments of his childhood were threatening to surface, so he pummeled them away, because they would always be painful: the memories.

(Why am I always the one left alive?)

Perhaps, this creature might know something, anything; for this half ghoul, Kaneki Ken, had been standing on this very fine line that divided two conflicting sides that occupied one scenario. He had lived in both worlds, so he must _know_ something. Koutarou was aware that his actions were being absurd and unreasonable, yet the fierce permanent desire to obtain answers, whatever they may be, would never be muffled; and right now, right here, was someone who could potentially be of assistance to him, after all, Kaneki Ken was half human too, right?

As Koutarou cradled a thin battered body in his arms, he hoped there still was something human left in him, since there was a name and a story and a hideous burgeoning feeling of reluctant ruth.

All of it affixed to his mind.

 

* * *

 

Koutarou hadn't found Investigator Suzuya when the raid upon Aogiri Tree's hideout had been at its peak; instead, he had found something that was probably much more troublesome.

He had had a heated battle with himself before he had decided to use the bloody uniform of a young and unknown fallen comrade; part of him still regretted he had done such a disgraceful thing. Evidently, the size hadn't slightly matched, no one, however, had seemed to notice this, when he had arrived at the place where the Medical Unit had been stationed. An unconscious survivor, he had claimed at their doors, without stating his name and rank; it had been unnecessary. The Medical Unit had been overwhelmed with severely wounded combatants, and the overtaxed medics and nurses didn't even blink when he had stayed and began to help.

Back in his apartment, Koutarou divested the half ghoul of the uniform that a nameless member of the special countermeasures unit had worn.

He placed the body in the bathtub and with a handheld shower started to wash away all the remainders of blood upon bare pale skin. Through his wondering eyes, he traced the faint scar on Kaneki's stomach. Then, in a clinical manner, he sponged his back and his limbs down with a standard brand of soap; something akin to gentleness seeped into his careful motions when he rubbed the tender skin of Kaneki's wrists and ankles.

Koutarou quickly turned off the water before grabbing a large clean towel. He dried Kaneki's hair and body and after he was finished he wrapped the towel firmly around his waist. His strong arms enclosed him, and Koutarou carried him without an effort to his bedroom. He laid him on his bed and dressed him with an old button up white shirt that seemed to swallow his frail frame.

Koutarou was exhausted, he really was, but sleep felt like an unavailable luxury. His eyes wouldn't close even if he had wanted them to—he was housing a half ghoul in his room—but he turned off the light anyway. In the darkness, he let out an apprehensive sigh and sat on the floor with his back against the door; his quinque beside him. He couldn't let his guard down, the hunting of ghouls had begun as a duty that had turned into an ingrained response. Even if he had comprehended long ago it was a never ending cycle, ghouls and humans destroying themselves in a race for supremacy.

Perhaps it was due to his exhaustion, but it never crossed his mind how unnecessary had been all of the things he had done for his temporary lodger.

He had been nodding off without meaning to, when a sudden cry jerked his head up in alarm. He rose to his feet, grasping the handle of the case instinctively. The half ghoul's body thrashed around, as his mouth uttered nonsensical murmurs, and sweat dampened his dark bangs. Using his strength and weight to his advantage, he first seized his arms, pushing them down on the bed with a bruising force, then he straddled his thighs, struggling for a while to restrain Kaneki's wild movements.

Remembering the room in which he had found him, Koutarou didn't even dare to picture what kind of mental torment Kaneki was being haunted by. What would be the result of his infernal trial? No, he shouldn't care. Yet, he somehow had started to do so, even if he had whisked him from that hell for his own purposes.

He saw Kaneki's eyelashes quivering, as if trying to jolt himself out of the dark spell he had been trapped in. After a while, the thrashing seemed to weaken, thus Koutarou hurriedly moved, and now laying on the bed as well, he forcefully dragged and pressed Kaneki's body against his, holding the body tightly—trying to absorb the progression of his current battle; a most furious battle which had tugged itself out of his mind to invade reality; and it was odd, certainly unexpected, Koutarou's misplaced urge for victory.

Koutarou didn't know how many minutes passed, but surely, a time came when everything quieted down; the circles he had been drawing on his back remained intentionally unregistered, as the beat of Kaneki's heart gradually regained its smooth regular rhythm. Koutarou listened to the sound, focused on it, in case there were any drastic changes; but the lulling echoes of their hearts engrossed him so, that he didn't notice he had released his consciousness of the grip it had been in; his eyes finally closing, head sinking back onto his pillows.

While the heat of the body in his arms warmed him throughout the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

Koutarou glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand, ten o’clock a.m., it displayed. He still felt the usual coolness that every brand-new morning brought; even though his figure was carefully draped with a blanket. Koutarou slowly frowned in confusion as he raised his upper body, he didn’t—his head jerked around—the room was empty; devoid of any other foreign presence. He was the only one in here, he assured himself. He threw the blanket aside and leapt to his feet, exiting the bedroom in a rush. He checked the bathroom: everything was in order, not a towel was missing and were dry and stacked properly in the cabinet below the sink.

In the living room, Koutarou sat on the couch, massaging his temples; the uniform and every drop of blood had vanished.

Everything that had occurred now seemed like an illusion.

Perhaps that was what it all had been.

In fact, it was probably better that way.

His stomach complained loudly, so ignoring any more pointless thoughts, he sauntered into the kitchen. When Koutarou saw the counter, he gasped in surprise. There was a solitary mug of coffee, ready for consumption. At first, Koutarou was uncertain whether he should drink it or not, but after debating the silly issue for a minute or two, he ended up holding the mug with both hands; discovering a lost strand of hair entwined around his left thumb. How hadn’t he noticed that before?

Koutarou lifted his hand toward his eyes. There was a fleeting moment in which Koutarou became fully fascinated by its silvery gleam. It was beautiful.

He wondered where it had come from (Kaneki Ken's hair was black right?).

Eyeing the mug again with a bit of distrust, he took a sip of his awaiting coffee at long last.

Koutarou couldn't believe this.

The coffee was perfect.

Warm and delicious.

 


End file.
